SOS
by Gevaudan
Summary: Illya is lost, alone and nursing a serious head injury. How will Napoleon, back at HQ find him and bring him home?


Napoleon Solo paced the Communications Centre restlessly, unaware of the interested gaze of the room's regular occupants.

Fourteen steps there, pause, turn, fourteen steps back, check watch, repeat.

Although out of character, the behaviour of the CEA wasn't entirely unexpected. Illya Kuryakin, Section 2, Number 2 and Solo's regular partner, was late to check in. Not the five minute, couldn't-check-in-too-busy-outrunning-my-own-explosives late, but the multiple missed-check-ins, complete radio silence late that set off a gnawing of doubt, low in Napoleon's gut. It was not the first time it had happened, and Solo could only pray that it wouldn't be the last.

He glanced again at his watch - twenty nine minutes. He turned to Janice, only to see that with a sympathetic smile, she was already re-attempting to open the channel to the lost agent.

There was a long, shrill whistle which abruptly cut off leaving behind only the grey whisper of static, before, suddenly, unexpectedly, blissfully there was a quiet groan.

"H.." a harsh cough, that elicited a wince of sympathy, "Hel-lo?"

It wasn't his typical greeting on answering his communicator, it wasn't even his usual soft Russian-edged tone, but it was undeniably Illya Nikovetch, and that simple word was enough to wreath the room in smiles. None too gently, Napoleon eased Janice out of the way, guaranteeing him unfettered access to the microphone. With his free hand he gestured for Sofia, stationed opposite the desk he had occupied, to start running a trace for his friend's location.

"Illya, how are you, tovarish?" There was a long pause, filled only with the Russian agent's ragged breathing, "Illya? Are you there?"

"'Poleon?" another long, agonising pause, followed by a barefaced lie, "I... I am...fine."

His words were stilted, and Napoleon could almost picture the state the younger man must be in. The hoarseness spoke of a neck injury, likely an attempted throttling, and the difficulty in finding words suggested the mother of all headaches.

Illya was normally so fluent in English that sometimes it was easy to forget that it wasn't his native tongue. He had once, in a rare, unguarded moment over too much vodka, confessed to Napoleon that now, particularly in America, he thought first in English rather than in his native Russian. All that changed with a head injury though - then you could practically see Illya working out what he wanted to say in Russian and then painstakingly translating it, word for word, into English.

"IIlya" Solo admonished, "Keep telling lies like that and you'll have a nose like Pinocchio."

There was a confused mumble on the line, with a smattering of Russian thrown in, most of which Solo couldn't catch. He glanced up at Sofia, who shook her head, and angrily tweaked a few dials in her bid to pin down a specific location.

"Ummm...I'm..." a growl of frustration echoed round the room, followed by a huge sigh and a defeated , "Not... sure. Tim-... No! No...Wood..." his voice, when it came through the speakers next, sounded small and defeated, "Prosti, Napoleon. "

Solo sighed, momentarily beaten. Illya had been in central Pennsylvania investigating a Thrush base near the nuclear research facility in the newly created State forest , the whole damn place was nothing but woods. Guilt, that he wasn't with friend surged, worsened by the quiet, heartfelt apology. He was desperate to head out to the area, and start searching, common-sense be damned, but he knew that without a clear location, it was unlikely that Mr Waverly

A familiar figure, crowned with chestnut curls passed the door at that moment, sparking a sudden idea in Napoleon's head.

"Hang tight Illya" he called, as he left the room, jogging in pursuit, "I'll be right back."

"Mandy!"

Solo called the name loudly, as he strode purposely down the corridor in pursuit of his prey. The pretty translator turned, her face lit with a bright smile.

"Why Napoleon, how are you?"

"Fine, Mandy, just fine. Listen," he took her by the elbow and spun her rapidly back round towards the Communications Centre, ignoring her flustered gestures, "You speak Russian don't you?"

She blinked in surprise, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion, "A little, Illya's been teaching me. You'd be better asking him though," realising even as she said it, that if that were a possibility, there was no way the CEA would be seeking her assistance.

"It's Illya I need you to talk to," he answered, shortly, his concern bleeding into his tone.

"Oh, well in that case," she paused confused once more, "Napoleon, Illya's English is better than my Russian any day of the week. In fact," she laughed, "His English is probably better than my English."

Solo shook his head, pushing her in front of him into the room, and pointing her towards the microphone.

"Not right now, it isn't. Mandy, he's hurt and we need to find out where he is."

She nodded quickly in understanding, her heart going out to her friend immediately. Taking a stool in front of the microphone she spoke, hesitantly but gently.

" _Illya,_ _s toboy vse v poryadke?_ "

There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end of the line and after a moment, a heartfelt,

 _"Spasibo, Napoleon,"_

A long exchange in Russian, followed - broken by occasional long pauses at each side. After a few moments Napoleon resumed his pacing unable to follow the conversation. Despite his best efforts, Illya's attempts to teach him the language had spectacularly failed. After a few more sentences, Mandy looked up.

"He's on foot," she said, "The car he had has been... uh... exploded? But he's not sure where he is."

Napoleon rummaged in the mission file, pulling out a map of the area that Illya had requested from the cartography department when planning his sortie.

"What can he see?" he asked Mandy, spreading the map across a vacant console and studying it intently. She relayed the question promptly, and listened intently to the reply.

"Trees" she reported after a moment, earning an exasperated snort from Solo.

"We got that, _tovarish,_ " he commented dryly, "Anything else?"

There was another flurry of Russian over the radio.

"He thinks he went south when he, release - no... escaped, sorry. He's in a valley," she hesitantly tried to clarify something, "No - sorry, that's not it. I think he's saying there are a few valleys. That he's in a place where valleys meet. Does that help, at all?"

Solo scanned the map intently, before jabbing at a particular spot.

"Is there a river?"

Mandy asked the question, but Solo didn't need her to translate the emphatic, " _Da_ " from his best friend.

"Mosquito Creek!" he snapped, gathering up the map, already intent on getting Mr Waverly's authorisation for a rescue, "Mandy, tell him I'll be right there."

As he gathered his things, he heard her reassurance, and Illya's quiet, emphatic, _"Ya znayu."_

"What did he say?" he asked, as he headed towards the door, confused by Mandy's soft smile. In response, she spread her hands as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"He said, 'I know."


End file.
